


A Little Like Interference

by Anonymous



Series: A Little Like [4]
Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Flirting, Foyet's canon obsession with Hotch, Gen, Hotch just wants to do his job, Hotch using Foyet's weird crush on him as leverage, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, More Power Dynamics, Protective Team, Stalking, Team as Family, Texting, and have a nap, canon sexual creepiness, more mind games, more tags to come
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:55:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28300059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Hotch is away on a case. Foyet is bored.
Relationships: George Foyet/Aaron Hotchner, The BAU Team & Aaron Hotchner
Series: A Little Like [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1910071
Comments: 45
Kudos: 94
Collections: Anonymous





	1. Part 1

**Author's Note:**

> I promised myself I wouldn’t overthink it—but then I did. I really enjoyed writing this part though, even if what I really wanted to get do is going to come a little later. I hate filler with a burning passion so, while I needed to set up some stuff, this has a fair amount of plot. Yes! There is plot! It’s not all Foyet’s weird crush on Hotch ;) Or is it? This might be four chapters rather than three because I've thrown in some extras at the beginning. I'm really, really conscious of continuity. Not just from the show, but from the earlier parts in the series. I've spent a little too long worrying about making sure I'm not leaving any plot holes. Also—I am so so nervous about some of the other stuff I’ve written for this. So. The longer we take to get there the better haha!

He was still trying to get to sleep when his phone rang.

Hotch forced his eyes open, unable to help but huff in exhausted exasperation, groping clumsily for his phone. Blinking at the screen until his eyes focused, he forced himself through the fog of sleep induced disorientation to figure out why the hell Rossi might be calling him at two in the morning. The case. Of course, the _case_. They were in Seattle—soothingly familiar after the two years he had spent here—looking for a potential angel of mercy operating in Harborview Medical Center. There had been six deaths so far and they’d spent two long, fruitless, days trying to pull together enough evidence to arrest, or at least question, their main suspect.

At least it wasn’t Foyet again. He answered the phone and tried to sound awake. “Hotch.” 

Rossi got straight to the point. “We have another body.”

Hotch sighed, shifting his phone in his hand as he suppressed a yawn, reaching towards the lamp on his bedside table. There was a twinge in his shoulder, he’d reached too far too fast, and he bit his lip in surprise as pain flared and then faded. He flicked the switch, flooding the hotel room with light; there was a split second where his brain stuttered, stalled as it tried to kick itself into gear, but Hotch pressed on with the ease of a man used to sleepless nights. 

“When?”

“Couldn’t sleep either?” Rossi noted, tone wry, before answering his question. “Time of death was around eleven. And there’s something different this time, this death was violent. He’s escalating.”

“That’s just after we left the hospital.” Hotch replied, frowning. He tried to shake the sleep from his voice. “He’s watching us. Violent how?”

“They were light on details but it definitely wasn’t cardiac arrest. We’ll have to wait until we get there.” Rossi replied and Hotch could almost hear his frown.

“How’s the warrant coming?”

Rossi sighed and he sounded as exhausted as Hotch felt. He couldn’t have had time for more than a nap.

“That bad?”

“I’ve never had so much evidence with no ability to make an actual arrest. If this crossed state lines we might have it easier, but it’s still officially a local case we’ve been called to advise on. Short of catching him red handed, we’re stuck.”

Hotch hmmed absently as he got out of bed and grabbed his clothes. He was practised at getting dressed one handed. “The search for a witness?”

“None willing to come forward. Not yet.”

“Do you think it’s being deliberately covered up? He’s donated a lot of money to the hospital.” 

It had crossed Hotch’s mind more than once over the past two days. Sam Powell was their main suspect and was the kind of rich who could make problems disappear just by looking at them. It was easy to see why people might respect him; parents dead before he was ten, one of the richest men in the city by twenty six, generous enough with donations to be on the board of trustees, Hotch knew that he didn’t look like the sort of man the FBI should consider a suspect in a series of murders. A lot of people were very unhappy about the route of their investigation.

But the team were _sure_ it was him.

“No. I think they don’t believe he’d do it and want us to stop wasting time.” The frustration was clear in Rossi’s tone. “Local PD are meeting us there. Morgan got the call about the body and I thought I’d ring first before knocking on your door.”

“Still getting dressed?”

“Let’s just say Morgan won’t be banging on my door again any time soon. He’s waking the others.” Rossi replied. Hotch could hear his smile.

“Mhm.” Hotch found he couldn’t suppress his yawn. “Time?”

“Just past two.” Rossi paused and Hotch knew what he wanted to ask. “Foyet call you again?”

“Second day in a row.” Hotch replied dryly. He hadn’t told anyone what Foyet had actually said to him last time, the mere thought of doing so was mortifying, but just because he didn’t talk about it didn’t mean he could keep it a secret. “I’ve been declining them. It’s always around midnight, probably because he knows I’m just about to go to sleep.”

“He must be bored.”

There was something else. Something Hotch didn’t really want to say but found himself saying anyway.

“He texted me to wish Jack a happy birthday yesterday.” Hotch said quietly, the anger he had felt at reading that message barely an echo in his tone. “I think—”

Hotch had ignored him all day. He’d forced it out of his mind and concentrated on the case. And Foyet didn’t like to be ignored. He didn’t like to lose an opportunity to, well, for lack of a better phrase— _twist the knife_. He wouldn’t have been pleased at not being able to gloat. Hotch hadn’t wanted to engage with that. It wasn’t the first time he had been away on a case for his son’s birthday, wasn’t the first time he’d watched a video from miles away and felt his heart clench with the longing to just be _there_ , but he’d never been in a situation like this before. His family had never been in danger. Risks had always fallen on him, where they should—he’d signed up for this, agreed to this—but never on them. Foyet saw them as collateral, a way to get to him, immaterial. 

Useful for strategy and nothing else.

Just like his team.

Seattle was about as far from Quantico as they could get without being in the ocean and Hotch still felt like he needed every member of his team within his immediate line of sight at all times. Foyet had risked arrest simply for a chance to speak to him face to face. He’d gone for the metaphorical throat; endangered Hotch’s team, manipulated the course of one of their active cases, purely to prove a point. And what a point it had been. Despite everything Hotch was trying to do, despite how well a lure he knew that he was, Foyet had been very clear about just how impossible it would be to ever hold him. He’d set himself up with every disadvantage and he’d done it because he’d found the challenge irresistibly fun. It showed just how dangerous he was.

And just how important it was to keep him far, far away from anyone Hotch cared about.

He was acutely aware of the promise Foyet had made to him. He was acutely aware of how the protection he had leveraged for his team had expired the moment Foyet had lured him to New York. Foyet had said that he owed him. He’d said that leaving his team alone would cost extra. Hotch wondered when he’d want to collect.

So far it hadn’t come up.

“Hotch?”

Hotch hated the vulnerability revealed by the length of his pause, Rossi’s voice shaking him out of his thoughts, and picked the sentence up again as if nothing had happened. 

“The taskforce are still blocking me. They took all our evidence from New York, refuse to release any of Shaunessy’s letters, and I know JJ’s been struggling to get in touch with Mrs Shaunessy.” Hotch felt himself frown, felt some of his frustration leak into his tone.

“You think they don’t trust you?”

It was too weighty a question for this hour of the morning. Hotch recoiled from it without shame.

“I think that if you’re waking me up this early you better get me a decent cup of coffee.”

“Ah,” Rossi said gently and Hotch felt himself bristle despite himself, frowning because he didn’t need or want gentleness right now, but then the moment was gone and his friend’s tone turned light. “well I can’t promise you any good coffee, but I think Reid still has a stash of jello.”

Hotch laughed, just a little. “Good luck getting him to give any away.”

Rossi chuckled. “You have a point. Lobby in ten?”

Hotch made a soft sound of affirmation before hanging up.

He finished buttoning his shirt, knotted his tie and shrugged on his jacket, rolling his shoulder with a small grimace. It didn’t hurt, didn’t twinge again, but Hotch couldn’t help but think of the physiotherapist who seemed more and more irate every time he saw them. Something about him ‘needing proper rest’ and ‘ignoring medical advice’. It was ridiculous. Hotch wasn’t ignoring medical advice, he would never risk going back into the field if he wasn’t completely sure he could handle it. He was part of a team, had been, should still be, the leader of that team, and if he put himself out in the field when he was physically not capable then he’d be risking their lives as well as his own. Hotch was many things, stubborn to a fault, but he would never, _ever_ , risk the safety of his team for his own damn pride.

__He had no patience for people who insinuated that he would._ _

__Grabbing his bag from beside the door, Hotch glanced down at his phone and sighed. He’d had his day’s break, his little moment to catch his breath, to look at Jack’s face and _hope_. But New York had shown him something else too; shown just how far Foyet was willing to go for the sake of impressing him, just how many risks he was prepared to take, and while Foyet was ever the meticulous planner, he wasn’t infallible._ _

__So he looked through his unread texts with low expectations—it was five in the morning in Virginia— and couldn’t help his sigh of irritation at what he found._ _

_what’s your favourite colour?_

It was a better hook to get him to answer than Foyet probably realised. It was the most innocuous thing Foyet had said to him. After everything he’d done, after everything he’d said, after telling him exactly what he wanted to do to him, _this_ was the question he asked? Hotch typed his response one handed, already halfway out of the hotel room.

_Are you serious?_

_finally! i thought you were gonna sulk forever, bet you’ve been pouting all day_

__Hotch stared at his phone in exhaustion fuelled incredulity and rolled his eyes. He paused just as he went to reply—smirked a little to himself—and waited. True to form, Foyet started fishing for a response. The next message came through just as Hotch was getting into the elevator._ _

_i’m bored_

_I’m busy._

__Hotch pressed the button for the lobby of the hotel and waited impatiently as the elevator began to descend. When Foyet replied, it seemed that he had turned his hand to speculation._ _

_you wear a lot of black, looks good btw, but if that’s your favourite color you’re even more boring than i thought_

__What’s your favourite colour? It was an inane question, practically juvenile, awkward—one of those scripted questions one asked when nervous on a first date—but Foyet was anything but nervous. It served no purpose, was barely even a taunt, though of course Foyet used it as an excuse to flirt with him some more. Truth be told, at this time of night, Hotch didn’t even care enough to puzzle out Foyet’s latest scheme to get Hotch to pay attention to him. As much the Reaper wanted to be the centre of the universe—he just wasn’t Hotch’s priority today. What he really wanted was a good nights sleep. Instead, there were seven bodies in the morgue, a potential angel of death on the loose in a hospital, and Foyet was asking him what his favourite colour was. Hotch didn’t even have a favourite colour. He had colours he liked, just as everyone did, but not a favourite. The question was pointless._ _

_I’m the one who’s boring? You just asked me my favourite colour. When I gave you my number, I thought that you’d be a lot more interesting._

__A pause._ _

_how you really feeling about morgan taking your job?_

_I like green._

__Foyet responded with a laughing emoticon and a little wink._ _

__Hotch sighed as the elevator doors opened, striding out into the lobby with a lot more purpose than he felt._ _

__He needed coffee._ _

__*_ _

__The hospital staff received them with the same frosty welcome they’d been treated to since the name ‘Sam Powell’ had first been put forward as a suspect._ _

__But the fear was new._ _

__Rossi and Prentiss had gone to examine the body, Reid and Morgan to look through older medical records for more victims, while Hotch and JJ tried to find someone willing to speak to them. JJ had caught his eye as they’d walked past the nurse’s station in the Intensive Care Unit, flicked her gaze to one of the nurses, a young man she thought might be a witness, motioned to the doctor who was currently scowling at them, and Hotch had given her the slightest nod of acknowledgement. He would be all the distraction she’d need._ _

__“Sam didn’t do it.”_ _

__The doctor— Madison Frey according to her name tag— was furious, eyes narrowed as she glared at him, mouth set in a stubborn, unhappy line. But Hotch had seen her hands shake before she crossed her arms; there was something else, something terrified, lurking behind that bravado. “You need to do your jobs and find out who did.”_ _

__Out of the corner of his eye, he saw JJ surreptitiously usher the nurse into an empty side room._ _

__“I understand this is hard.” Hotch said evenly. It was a phrase that so easily sounded empty, stale with repetition. He’d always made sure to put the effort in to show earnest, genuine, compassion. “Have you seen anyone unusual on the ward?”_ _

“No.” Doctor Frey said tersely, dark eyes searching his face. Looking for subterfuge. He made sure she didn’t find it. “This time it wasn’t even on _this_ ward—and you said it would be—and it wasn’t a terminal patient. What did you say about that again? That he was targeting people seeking assisted suicide? Well this time he killed someone who was ready to be discharged.”

__The Washington Death with Dignity Act of 2009 allowed terminal patients, those with six months to live, the right to seek an assisted death. Every victim so far had been ineligible. It was why they had considered this unsub to be an angel of mercy—offering what they saw as a compassionate death—and why a change so drastic as to begin killing violently was incredibly unusual. It did not mean they were wrong. Angels of death were always complicated, always had incredibly complex psychologies, and their suspect had been present in the hospital at every one of the murders. He’d been caught on CCTV leaving the rooms of every victim shortly before they died, and his lawyers could provide no reason for why he’d been there._ _

__If it wasn’t him, someone was doing a very good job of making it look like it was._ _

__“If the crimes are escalating, it’s even more important that we catch this person quickly.” Hotch said, deliberately avoiding Sam Powell’s name. He wasn’t intimidated by her tone but he wasn’t going to needlessly alienate her. “We aren’t the enemy here.”_ _

__The doctor sighed, thawed a fraction, and nodded jerkily. She looked worn, stretched thin, the fact that it was currently three in the morning seemingly catching up to her. She looked at him closely for a moment and must have seen some of her own tiredness reflected in his face. She gestured to down a hallway to his right._ _

__“There’s a coffee machine down the hall.”_ _

__Hotch was aware. He smiled anyway; soft and sweet, ducked his head a little like he was shy—and maybe he was, it was a little embarrassing that she’d noticed how tired he was— knew it made him look a little smaller, non-threatening._ _

__“Thank you.”_ _

__Never let it be said that Hotch didn’t know how to use his soft-spoken nature for maximum effect. The doctor relaxed even more, expression gentling as she looked at him, and ran a hand through her hair. “I know you’re only trying to help. It’s just—you have to understand—”_ _

__“You don’t need to explain, you don’t know us, but you know him.” He kept his tone gentle. Kindness was always sorely needed, always deserved, and compassion was always easy to give. “I’d be angry too.”_ _

__“It can’t be him.” She repeated. The conviction in her tone was unshakeable, an admirable quality that was going to break her if she was wrong, but there was something earnest there too. Something desperate. “He leads our support group for terminal diagnosis, he’s here every week. He sits with the patients who have no family, holds their hands as they die. But this—this latest murder, well—word travels fast and I know who found the body—it’s _horrific_. It can’t be him. He couldn’t do this.”_ _

__If the doctor had ever doubted that it wasn’t Sam Powell, she didn’t anymore._ _

__Perhaps that had been why he had done it, perhaps that had been why the sudden change in M.O. His musings were interrupted as he saw JJ re-enter the corridor, saw her jerk her head in the direction of the coffee machine the doctor had just mentioned._ _

__“We’ll catch who did.” Hotch said seriously._ _

__JJ had already disappeared down the hall and Hotch had already begun to follow when his phone pinged in his pocket. He let out an irritated huff and wondered if Foyet was going to hound him with stupid questions for this entire case._ _

_enjoying seattle? you used to live there didn’t you_

__Hotch stopped dead, went cold._ _

_How do you know I’m in Seattle?_

__He replied too quickly, typed too fast and forgot that Foyet was smart enough to read his sudden anxiety from a text. This had not been an innocuous question. Foyet wanted him to know that he knew exactly where Hotch was. How? How had he known?_ _

_why so worried_

_I’m not_

_you are and you're tired, aren’t you? too tired to realise the obvious_

__Foyet could have gloated longer, could have revelled in Hotch’s weakness for as long as he wanted, but he didn’t. He seemed overjoyed at Hotch’s overreaction._ _

_i saw the lovely agent jareau on the news yesterday_

__Hotch hadn’t known how tense he was until he suddenly relaxed. Of course. JJ had made a statement to the press, as she always did. It was an easy answer, an easy truth, and he’d jumped straight passed it because he hadn’t been thinking._ _

_It’s rude to gloat._

__JJ saw him put his phone away as he approached the hospital vending machines; something hard and fiercely protective flaring in her eyes, an instinct that was never born from softness. JJ was kind. She was gentle, empathetic and caring. But she wasn’t soft. It was the only reason he didn’t bristle under the scrutiny, didn’t feel annoyed, because he knew that she despised revealing personal vulnerability as much as he did._ _

__She didn’t ask what Foyet had said; but she did address it, in her own way._ _

__“Mrs Shaunessy has been in touch. Foyet’s task force haven’t been passing on my messages, but I contacted her directly. She wanted to meet a few days ago but she knows we’re out of state.”_ _

__“With our schedules, it’ll be easier if I go to Boston.” Hotch agreed, listening to the vending machine splutter as it attempted to make a coffee. “I’ll take a day for it when we return.”_ _

__“I’ll let her know.”_ _

__“Thanks JJ.” Hotch smiled gratefully. “Any luck with your witness?”_ _

__“This latest death has the whole hospital spooked.” JJ said as she handed him the coffee the machine had finally managed to produce. “Honestly? Ben’s scared. I barely got anything out of him. I spoke to him yesterday after I gave our statement to the press. He seemed open, said something that made me think he might have actually seen one of the murders, but today he just completely shut down.”_ _

__Hotch nodded, accepting the coffee gratefully, frowning as he looked into his cup._ _

__He didn’t know what the liquid in his cup actually was— it sure as hell couldn’t be decent coffee—but it was hot, had some form of caffeine in it, and he would drink it with no complaints. The chronic sleep deprivation a new-born baby could cause meant he’d learned not to be picky. JJ started to fill her own cup just as he took a tentative sip. His theory on how horrendous it tasted was immediately confirmed. He didn’t even grimace but something of his disgust must have shown on his face because JJ laughed._ _

__He took another sip anyway. “Do you think it’s worth pulling him aside for a formal interview?”_ _

__JJ frowned. “I gave him my number, told him to call, but anything official is going to send him running a mile.”_ _

“Hmm.” Hotch acknowledged thoughtfully. JJ had spoken to more people in relation to this case than everyone on the team combined, had the insight of a liaison rather than a profiler—could often pull out what they couldn’t through her interactions with families— and he let the moment stretch in case there was anything else she wanted to add. He would never talk over her, pressure her, but he would _push_ her. “We should let Morgan know.”

__JJ raised a brow, her expression knowing, but there was a pleased smile on her lips. She nodded._ _

__They’d been allowed to set up in a spare meeting room—despite the fact that it was obvious no one wanted them there—and they walked back in a comfortable silence. Still, Hotch couldn’t help the slight prickle of unease, the tension that made him want to tap his fingers on the side of his coffee cup. Hospitals were always so eerie, that same buzz of activity no matter the hour, and it was only by looking out of the window, or at a clock, that you could even place the time. They seemed to exist on an infinite pause, a time loop all their own operating within their walls._ _

Hotch _hated_ hospitals.

__The sterile rooms, the long corridors, the terrible coffee. It was all part of this aesthetic that couldn’t help but set him a little on edge. He hated how familiar they were, how often he’d—_ _

__“Hotch?” JJ said suddenly._ _

__“Hm?”_ _

__She was looking at him almost in accusation, not a hint of hesitation in her eyes. “Are you alright?”_ _

__“Tired.” Hotch allowed. “I’m just tired.”_ _

__JJ frowned and he could see her looking for a tell she’d never find. Still, she knew when to go with her gut. “You’re an excellent liar, Hotch.”_ _

__He smirked, raised a brow, and his reply was laced with a dash of sardonic, pointed, humour._ _

__“Aren’t we all?”_ _

__*_ _

__“Any luck?” Morgan asked tiredly when they returned. His arm was still in a sling, but he was tossing an apple up and down in the air with his other hand. Hotch knew it helped him think._ _

__“Maybe.” JJ replied as she sat down, downing half her coffee without hesitation. “You?”_ _

__It was Reid who answered, gesturing to the files piled on the table as he delved energetically into his explanation. “We’ve found thirteen other deaths in the past two years which could be attributed to the unsub, as well as over twenty incidences of sudden cardiac arrest where the patient was successfully resuscitated. The recent cases all had ajmaline in their system, but no one was looking for foul play in previous years.”_ _

__There were three empty coffee cups on the table in front of him, he was currently working through a fourth, and he looked more awake than the three of them combined._ _

__Hotch was a little jealous._ _

__“How’d you identify older cases?” Hotch asked._ _

__Morgan seemed content to let Reid speak, gesturing for the genius to continue as he took a bite out of his apple._ _

__“I noticed the presence of sotalol, lidocaine and amiodarone in older medical histories. Like ajmaline, they are all antiarrhythmics and can be used to induce Bradycardia and, subsequently, cardiac arrest. If the unsub was experimenting, they seem to have developed a preference. We could be looking at thirty-three potential crimes committed here.” Reid said, pausing for a moment to take a breath before continuing. “Most angels of death have incredibly high kill counts; Jane Toppan may have killed as many as one hundred, while Donald Harvey claimed to have killed ninety over the course of a decade. It might be impossible to tell if there are more.”_ _

__“Toppan was unusual—female serial killers don’t usually kill for the sexual thrill—but the pattern suggests our unsub is just getting started.” Hotch agreed._ _

__“A drug like ajmaline can’t be easy to get hold of.” JJ interjected. “But with the amount of wealth he has I’m guessing he can get whatever he wants without much trouble.”_ _

__Morgan nodded, tossing his apple core in the trash. “We checked stocks here. Wherever his source is, it’s not the hospital.”_ _

__“Garcia found anything?” Hotch asked._ _

__“She’s checking it out now, but we all know he’s been squeaky clean so far.”_ _

__Hotch sipped his coffee. “Could he have run out? This latest murder wasn’t a heart attack.”_ _

__“Rossi and Prentiss aren’t back yet, but it’s possible.” Morgan replied evenly, nodding. “If he did run out, this might be a temporary change until he can get more.”_ _

__“The window between murders is closing,” Reid said thoughtfully. “only two days between the latest victims. He might get desperate if he can’t get any more of his chosen drug before the need to kill overwhelms him.”_ _

__“Desperate enough to make a mistake.” Hotch mused, but he was looking at Morgan as he spoke. Something about what he had said felt off—the tone too even maybe—and he felt himself frown. “We manage to get past the lawyer yet?”_ _

__“Not yet.” Morgan replied. Then his smile turned teasing. “You wanna take this one?”_ _

__“I can do.” Hotch smirked back. “I might know a thing or two about getting around a lawyer.”_ _

__“That’s why I asked.” Morgan grinned._ _

__Reid snorted. “You just want him to scare them.”_ _

__This had always been the team’s way, light-hearted banter in the face of what they had to cope with as part of the job. He couldn’t help his fond smile._ _

__“If Hotch is talking to the lawyer, I should try again with our potential witness.” JJ said. “I really think Ben knows more than he’s saying.”_ _

__“Alright then,” Morgan said. “You speak to him, Hotch can try the lawyer, and we’ll see what Rossi and Prentiss have found when they come back.”_ _

__Hotch was about to give his assent but, of course, his phone pinged in his pocket just as he went to speak. Hotch almost didn’t catch himself before he sighed. He checked his phone anyway. It seemed Foyet was back to talking about colours._ _

_i like you in red_

__Hotch tossed his phone on the table with an exasperated huff, too exhausted to smother his irritation as he usually would. He immediately regretted it; he had forgotten that he wasn’t on his own, had gotten sloppy in his tiredness, and such an outburst from him was so unusual someone was going to mention it._ _

__Morgan’s eyes darted between the phone and him, a tension in his shoulders that hadn’t been there before. “Everything alright?”_ _

__It was too late to play it off, but it wasn’t too late to play it down. Hotch shrugged as carelessly as he’d ever allow. “He asked me my favourite colour.”_ _

__“Seriously?” Morgan frowned but there was relief in his expression. Surprise flaring and dying in the same instant. He’d obviously been expecting something a bit more Foyet’s style. “I don’t even know what to say to that.”_ _

__“Statistically your favourite colour is most likely to be blue.” Reid said absently, flipping through a file at a speed that would have meant skim reading for anyone else. “It’s a preference that’s true for both men and women. A recent study found—”_ _

__“Reid.” Morgan interrupted, looking vaguely incredulous. Which, really, he should know better by now. “It’s favourite colours.”_ _

__Reid didn’t even look up from what he was reading. “So?”_ _

__“I don’t even have a favourite colour.” Hotch said before Morgan could open his mouth to respond. “It’s a pointless question.”_ _

__“He asked you anything like this before?” JJ asked, bold as always._ _

__Hotch felt the gaze of both Morgan and Reid on him as he thought about his answer, felt the silence in the room settle into something akin to anticipation. This was the first time he’d actually shared what Foyet had said to him. Even if it was just a text message. It was the first time he’d shared something like this since he’d been attacked, since they’d seen how Foyet spoke to him in New York. He knew that they were curious. He knew that they were worried. Hotch picked up his phone from the table._ _

__“No.”_ _

__There was a pause. Hotch was aware they were waiting to see if he’d say anything more._ _

__He shrugged again. “No, he hasn’t.”_ _

__And that was that._ _

__Except Reid immediately turned to Hotch with a frown, eyes serious. For a moment Hotch thought he was going to ask him a question he really didn’t want to answer, felt the weight of his regard, the curiosity, but what he said was actually quite simple._ _

__“Would you like some jello?”_ _

__Hotch gave that question all the consideration it deserved. “What flavours are left?”_ _

__“Well I’m having the strawberry so—orange?”_ _

"Hey, hold up a minute.” Morgan made a good show of pretending to be mad but he couldn’t help the fondness softening his tone. “How come _he_ gets jello?”

__Reid frowned even more, handing Hotch the pot of orange jello he’d stashed in his bag. “You never said you wanted any.”_ _

__Hotch smirked. Morgan rolled his eyes._ _

__A grim-faced David Rossi walked through the door_ _

They sobered instantly. Morgan straightened, shoulders tense once more, and Hotch caught the edge of something he couldn’t yet comprehend as the two profilers shared a look. It should have irked him that he was out of the loop but that was a pettiness that had no place in his team. He drank the last of his coffee, had the feeling that he’d need it; the expression on Rossi’s face was not one that he saw often, the older profiler so very unflappable, and Hotch looked at him and somehow just _knew._

__“Aaron,” Rossi said, his hesitation as uncharacteristic as the expression on his face. “There’s something you should know.”_ _

__Hotch’s fingers tightened around his coffee cup. “It wasn’t Powell this time was it?”_ _

__Rossi grimaced. “No, I don’t think it was.”_ _

__There was no puzzle. There was no puzzle that needed to come together because the pieces had already been assembled. There had been violence when there had previously been none, it hadn’t been in the ICU, the patient hadn’t been terminal. Hotch remember the way Dr Frey’s hands had shook. He thought about the call to his phone not one hour after the most recent murder, he thought about useless texts that served no purpose._ _

__It was six in the morning in Virginia. Why was Foyet still awake?_ _

__“Dave.” Hotch said and, though he knew he sounded tired, his voice didn’t shake. He was already standing up. “Show me.”_ _

__“You don’t need t—”_ _

__“You know I do.” And then, to seal the deal. “Please.”_ _

__They passed Prentiss in the hall, phone to her ear, a uniformed police officer standing next to her, and Hotch returned her small, encouraging smile. She must be calling it in with Quantico. Otorhinolaryngology, the ear, nose and throat ward, was minutes away from the ICU, and it was minutes that Rossi let him have in silence. Hotch was grateful._ _

__When they got to the right room, he could already see blood splattered across the glass. He wanted to pause but knew he couldn’t. He walked straight in._ _

__His first thought was that there was too much blood._ _

__His second thought was that it was obvious whose crime scene this was._ _

__His third thought was lost to the panic that hit him like a sucker punch to the chest, slipping past years of experience, years of looking at worse. Suddenly all of those years meant nothing, less than nothing, careful distance yanked away with every sharp, stuttered breath. Hotch found himself stuck on the inhale, felt winded, breaths forced shallow by something akin to the instinct to fight. Except there was nothing to fight, nowhere for it to go—panic for panics sake—and oh was it galling to be confronted by a vulnerability he didn’t know he still had._ _

Hotch despised the fact that he was more terrified then than he had ever been, ever _would_ be, of Foyet.

__It was unacceptable._ _

__He forced himself to take a breath, ruthlessly measured, because he would give no room for anything but calm. Hotch had never had to reach for a profiler’s mindset— less something he’d had to practise, more the way he’d always seen the world—and that served him well now._ _

__Foyet had been busy. There was a lot to see._ _

__Rossi was still behind him. That was good. Hotch knew that he’d gone pale._ _

He’d posed the body, of course he had, laid the victim out on his back on the bloodied sheets of the bed. There was a gaping hole in his forehead—Hotch could guess it was the exit wound of Foyet’s preferred forty-four calibre—and he immediately knew why the Reaper had decided to kill from behind. The shirt had been left on, ripped from an excess of stab wounds that numbered a lot more than nine, but there were finger shaped bruises around the wrists and throat. Lurid and purpling. Hotch was more than familiar. He looked at the blood, _had_ to look at the blood; a deep dark red splattered across the sheets, the floor, the windows, so much of it only a fraction had begun to dry.

__Blood didn’t behave like most liquids._ _

__It wasn’t like water. Blood was thick, almost viscous if the quantity was large enough. Sticky too. It grew brittle as it dried. It felt warm to lay in—it felt warm even as you grew cold—and it covered the room like Foyet had tried to paint with it.__

____

__Looking at the Eye of Providence covering one of the walls, he probably had._  
_

__Hotch looked at the flowers on the table—they weren’t roses this time—and then at the floor. There were bloody footprints interspaced with the red petals scattered purposefully across the room._ _

__He thought of the text on his phone._ _

_i like you in red_

__“What was the victim being treated for?” Hotch asked softly._ _

__Rossi took a moment to answer. “Hyperacusis.”_ _

__It wasn’t surprising that Foyet had remembered. It wasn’t surprising that Foyet had looked a little too closely at Hotch’s medical chart, seen something of his history. He’d kept it quiet, waited for his moment, and Hotch knew that at some point he was going to ask him about Kate. About how she had died. About the explosion. Hotch closed his eyes for a moment; not to panic, oh no, but to suppress the steady, burning anger building in his chest._ _

__“Did anyone see him leave?”_ _

__“Garcia’s pulling up the CCTV.” Rossi answered carefully._ _

__“Good.” Hotch turned on his heel and left the room, Rossi falling into step with him as he strode down the corridor and away from the crime scene. He moved on as easily as if Foyet hadn’t practically just written him a love letter in someone else’s blood._ _

“I want Powell’s lawyer here _now_.” 


	2. Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, at the risk of being incredibly sappy, your comments on this whole series have been amazing. Christmas this year was really hard and reading the comments in my inbox helped me keep smiling— every time I’ve needed a little boost recently, I’ve just gone back and reread them. Every time I do, I can’t stop smiling. I wanted this up for New Years day but I’m also too much of a perfectionist to post anything unless I’m completely happy with it. Tbh, I'm still not entirely happy but I've been looking at it for so long the words are starting to lose meaning. This one had a lot to juggle! I had to move a lot of what I'd planned for this chapter into chapter three (so should be quicker but I'm really sorry if not!) So here is part two. With added flirting ;) Y’know, sometimes I wonder if I’m making Foyet too flirty—then I go back and read what I’ve already written, or watch the actual show, or read ahead to some of what is still to come, and I’m like. Nevermind.

*

Powell’s lawyer didn’t appreciate being woken at four in the morning.

However, Hotch didn’t much care what she thought, and he had very little patience for her irate tone—though he did allow himself a small measure of satisfaction—because even though this recent murder had been Foyet, her client was still their main suspect. Regardless of how she very obviously did not want to be on the phone with him, Hotch counted it as a win that she was smart enough not to just hang up. Wrangling her into agreeing to meet took less time than expected; mostly because Hotch was really not in the mood for a negotiation, but also because he could tell that she really just wanted to go back to sleep. Persuading her to bring her client was slightly harder, but he allowed her to set the time, nine o’clock, when the sun would actually be up, to sweeten the deal.

Rossi was watching him very carefully when he hung up.

Hotch fought the urge to scowl, knew he couldn’t, knew that he was watching Rossi just as closely while trying to pretend that he wasn’t. It was an instinct he couldn’t help, that same gut feeling that had always served him so very well. Thinking about the most recent victim, the way they had died, set an icy feeling in the pit of his stomach. If Foyet could attack so boldly, his custom always to go for risk over certainty, just to make some pointless possessive point, then he could do a lot worse. And it had been a possessive point—look what I could have done to you—look how special you are. Perhaps it was arrogance to think the Reaper wouldn’t kill _him_ , but Hotch had learned an uncomfortable amount about Foyet over the last few weeks—enough to write his own book—and he knew that he was probably the safest out of them all. At the moment, Foyet just wanted to torture him. The killing would come later.

When he was satisfied. 

For his part, Rossi was standing just a little too close, a scant inch, caught in that protective urge that could rankle as much as comfort. His gaze was piercing. There was always a danger in giving a profiler time to think, especially one as seasoned as David Rossi, and Hotch could almost hear the thoughts whirring away. He sighed.

“You’re hovering.”

Rossi granted him an eye roll and a smug smirk. “You’re one to talk. Don’t think I haven’t noticed how reluctant you are to let me out of your sight.”

Hotch shrugged. 

Rossi went quiet for a moment, contemplative, and it was obvious he was figuring out the best plan of attack. Hotch waited as they approached the elevator, waved him inside first, and Rossi chose to make his move as the doors closed.

“Are we going to talk about it?”

Ah, the direct approach. Hotch shrugged as he reached for the button for their floor. “Do we need to?”

His tone had been a little too combative; Rossi’s eyes narrowed, expression hardening just enough that Hotch could now tolerate his sympathy. “Oh, we definitely do.”

There was a moments pause. Hotch allowed another nod if not a smile—victory was his—because he knew that there wasn’t time. “But not now.”

“The case comes first?” Rossi had a unique talent for exasperated sarcasm. His disapproval at his avoidance was clear. 

Despite himself, despite the tension that had him wound tight, despite it all, Hotch relaxed a little; soothed somehow by Rossi’s caustic humour, the return to the relatively safe ground of their active case, the fact that his friend knew not to push, the familiarity of the job something he’d never admit he needed. “It has to.”

“Hmm.” Rossi could put a lot of meaning into a sound. None of it was good. “Later then.”

Hotch wasn’t yet tired enough to be tricked into a verbal affirmation. “Mhm.”

The elevator stopped, doors opening, and they stepped out. Left Foyet’s crime scene behind.

“I’ll bring the whiskey.” Now Rossi was smirking.

“You always bring whiskey.” Hotch said.

“Your point?”

“Don’t you get bored?”

Rossi closed his eyes as if Hotch had personally offended him. He opened them after a moment and gave him a look of severe reproach. “I’ll let that slide. I know you’re overtired.”

This time Hotch did smile, was actually startled into a laugh, and the point went to Rossi. He conceded with an eye roll. “When have any of us actually gotten a decent night’s sleep?”

Now it was Rossi’s turn to laugh. “Sometime in 1989 for me, I think.”

“Hmm.” Hotch found himself wanting to yawn, lost the fight and ended up hiding it behind a hand, glaring at Rossi half-heartedly when the other man smirked. He couldn’t help it though, couldn’t help but feel his feet drag as he walked; couldn’t help but want to curl up in a chair—he’d prefer a bed, but he wasn’t feeling picky—and take a nap. It was irritating to tire so easily. He’d barely been back on the job five minutes and already it was obvious he was still recovering.

“Hotch,” Rossi said and if they were back to using worknames this must be serious. That or he was trying to be delicate, professionalism his own brand of hesitation. “if Foyet killed the latest victim, and we’re meeting the lawyer at nine, then we don’t really need to be here. You—we all—could go get some sleep.”

“Do you really think I’ll be able to sleep until I know what he’s planning?” Hotch replied.

And, well, Rossi couldn’t argue with that.

Hotch took advantage of the moment of silence to check his phone, ignoring the way reading Foyet’s last text made his blood boil, because this had been set up for a _reason_. It was always about the why with the Reaper—never necessarily about the what—because the point was always what Foyet could get out of every kill. He hadn’t gotten it yet. He’d chosen that victim because he’d wanted Hotch to find him, had tailor made that crime scene, crafted it even, specifically for his chosen audience. It was Foyet’s own brand of twisted romance. But what would he do next?

And was he even still awake?

_You came all the way to Seattle and you didn’t even come and say hello?_

Hotch met Rossi’s stare dead on as he put his phone away, met it with a challenging smile and a raised eyebrow, and dared his friend to mention it. Dared his friend to ask. Rossi didn’t take the bait, but Hotch knew he’d be hearing about it later. That was fine with him, later could be put off for a very, very long time.

Later might as well be ‘never’.

They heard Garcia’s voice when they returned to the team, slightly grainy through the phone, amplified by being on speaker. Hotch nodded at Morgan as he walked in, but stayed standing, leaning against the wall by the door, the temptation to fall asleep if he sat in a chair too strong. He ignored the concerned glances from his team, tried not to feel like they were trying to peel back his calm demeanour and peer inside.

“—all of that stuff he’s always doing, the _flirting_ , you told me what it was like in New York and, just, we need to catch this guy. Ooh if I could just get my hands on him I’d—well the fact that he knows CCTV blind spots so well is just, urgh—is Hotch ok? Does he need more cookies? I could make some more cookies. Maybe I’ve made him too _many_ cookies. Never mind. Has anyone given him a hug yet? You guys better take care of him I swear to—

“Hello Penelope.” Hotch said dryly. 

“Sir!” There was not a hint of embarrassment, just surprise, and then her tone turned apologetic. “I’m sorry, I couldn’t keep track of where he went. He disappeared a few blocks away.”

“It’s alright.” Foyet would never be so stupid as to be caught on CCTV when he didn’t want to be.

She scoffed. “You would say that, but I’m infuriated. He did this jaunty little wave at the camera as if he knew, smirked like the smug little bastard he is, and it just makes my blood boil sir.”

“Hey, it’s ok baby girl,” Morgan soothed. “We all know how good you are at what you do.”

“Hmph!” Garcia wasn't pacified.

“We appreciate your help, we know how early it is.” Hotch added.

“Well, it’s early for you too. Have any of you had any sleep?”

The fact that no one said anything for a moment was answer enough. 

“I’ve had four cups of coffee.” Reid said brightly and, really, he had no business being that chipper at this time of the night. Hotch wondered if he’d experience the same effect if _he_ downed three more cups of coffee. He sighed, ended up leaning against the wall a bit more heavily and couldn’t be bothered to straighten up again. “That’s basically the same thing.”

“Oh, sweetness it’s not.” Garcia replied fondly. “Right, well, I also need to update you on what I found on our mysterious Mr Powell.”

“Go ahead baby girl.” Morgan said.

“Ok, so, it turns out he isn’t as squeaky clean as we thought—shocking I know— but I had to dig to get anything really juicy. It looks like someone worked hard to bury this, scrubbed as many records as they could get their hands on. But! I managed to track down an old police report and it turns out our suspect was involved in an altercation when he was in college. It was nasty. Ended with another boy in the hospital.”

“We didn’t profile violence.” Rossi frowned. “What happened?”

“Erm, he was at a frat party, took issue to the way a fellow classmate was treating a girl which, yeah, I can’t say I disapprove of, but in the resulting fight the other boy ended up with several broken bones, severe internal bleeding, a fractured skull, and was hospitalised for a couple of months.” Garcia said, the faint sound of her nails clicking on her keyboard audible as she spoke. It was a soothing sound. “Neither were suspended, the whole thing seems to be swept under the rug, and the girl in question is the current Mrs Powell. Their wedding was a big deal, all over the papers—ooh look at that ring—”

“Garcia.” Prentiss said, a smirk tugging at her mouth.

“Oh, if you could see it you would agree.” Garcia was unrepentant. “But from what I can tell this guy is still more than capable of doing some serious damage in a fight—he’s kept up with the gym, I’ve got boxing memberships, and at six foot five I would not mess with him if I saw him.”

They’d all seen a picture of their suspect, and Hotch couldn’t say he disagreed with Garcia’s assessment. 

Sam Powell would tower over any one of them and, by the looks of it, even Morgan would struggle to compete with him in terms of muscle. Hotch wasn’t a small man, but he knew he leaned towards slight, slim and lean, rather than muscular. He’d never be able to build muscle the way Morgan was able to, and it had actually taken till his thirties before he’d even been able to fill out much at all. Not that that meant much of anything at all in a fight; JJ and Prentiss were a prime example of how little size could truly matter if someone knew what they were doing. But if someone _didn’t_ know what they were doing, someone like Mrs Powell…

“Hmm.” Morgan replied thoughtfully, seemingly coming to the same realisation Hotch had. “Any other episodes like that? Domestic abuse?”

“If there are any more, they are very well hidden. No suspicious trips to the ER for Mrs Powell.” Garcia said. 

“Ok mama, keep digging just in case.”

“Will do.” Garcia said before she hung up.

Hotch felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. It woke him up, pulled him towards hyper focus and away from sleep. It also answered his question—Foyet _was_ still awake.

But where was he? 

_did you like my surprise? shame i didn’t get to see your face_

He couldn’t help his unimpressed scoff, couldn’t help but be the slightest bit amused by how badly the Reaper wanted his attention; because of course Foyet would regret not being able to witness the effect of his actions in person, of course he would want to see the results of his attempt to get under Hotch’s skin. It was something he could use, something he could leverage, but how far that went would depend on how badly the Reaper wanted to know. And Hotch was betting that that was pretty damn bad. 

_Do you want me to tell you about it?_

_you would do that for me kitten?_

Hotch smiled grimly, he’d tell Foyet what he wouldn’t tell Rossi. How ironic that he’d offer that intimacy to a serial killer and not to his best friend. 

_If the price was right._

A coffee appeared in his field of vision, the hand holding it shaking it a little to get his attention, and Hotch jerked his head up, unable to believe how easily he’d become lost in thought. Lost texting Foyet. The movement jolted him out of his casual slouch, tipped him upright, sent a shock of pain racing down his shoulders to his torso. It very nearly made him gasp, residual stiffness something he’d rarely dealt with in recent weeks, returning with a vengeance now. He stopped himself just in time—not that tired yet—and met Prentiss’s dark eyes. She smirked at how he’d jumped, but her eyes were soft. Soft enough that all he could do was nod and take the coffee cup from her hands.

“Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet you haven’t tried it.”

Hotch laughed, grateful that she hadn’t asked, had let his moment of vulnerability pass without comment. “Still—thank you.”

Prentiss’s smirk relaxed, tipping its way towards a smile, her eyes flicking over him in a slow assessment, and he realised then just how worried she had been. “Forgot those southern boy manners make you so sweet.”

JJ sniggered. Hotch at Prentiss with a raised brow, flicked his gaze over to JJ for a moment just to let her know she wasn’t exempt, and set his face into an expression of unimpressed boredom. It was his go to when his team were up to their usual antics. Rossi was watching him with an expression that said that he wasn’t fooled and that they would be having _words_ about it later. Hotch would add it to the list.

Reid chose that moment to cut in, his tone bright, eyes piercing. “I saved you your jello! Morgan tried to swipe it.”

“Hey!” The man in question put in a token protest.

Hotch wandered over to his seat, knew that he could no longer get away with lingering by the wall. Not with so many watchful eyes now turned to him, the overprotective gears warming up, and sat down with his coffee in hand. He relaxed a little, carefully, wondering if more pain would come, and watched as Reid smiled and slid the unopened orange jello cup down the table towards him. Hotch stopped it with a hand, was handed a spoon by JJ, saw Rossi and Morgan share a look out of the corner of his eye, and sighed. It was obvious what was going on.

He was being _managed_.

Hotch couldn’t quite bring himself to be annoyed about it.

His team made it so very hard to feel alone

Although he despised the slightest hint of pity, of sympathy, he couldn’t help but admit that he was actually very easily to pacify. It should have annoyed him, should have made him curl inwards, scowl and shut them out and refuse to be soothed. It didn’t though—tension drained from his shoulders, he felt himself soften with fondness— it was so very hard to feel irritated around them.

So very hard not to love them.

So very hard not to know that he’d do anything to keep them safe.

Foyet had been taunting him for _hours_ and he hadn’t realised. The bastard had been smug, had been enjoying himself. ‘I like you in red’—what a galling, humiliating, joke now he knew what Foyet meant by it—asking how he was enjoying Seattle, peppering him with annoying little texts just waiting for him to discover what the Reaper had done. Was he really so tired that he hadn’t noticed? He was. Hotch knew without even thinking about it. He was so very tired. Not tired enough that he couldn’t do his job, not tired enough to be stupid, but with Foyet, well—with Foyet anything less than perfect focus might as well be stupidity. It might as well be game over.

Hotch was going to make sure it wasn’t game over.

His phone was still in his other hand, Hotch deliberately set it down on the table, baited the hook, saw how the eyes of his team were drawn to it, and smirked. 

“What did I miss?” He asked and now he let himself sound slightly sheepish, drawing out that protective instinct, softening his usual scowling demeanour. It was just enough to let them know that everything was ok.

“We were just discussing next steps. Rossi told us that the lawyer’s agreed to meet with us in the morning.” Morgan said, his tone was at ease, but the arm in the sling was tense, fingers clenched; his instincts were telling him to ask Hotch what he knew—if he could find out anything useful—but his heart was telling him that would be insensitive. It wasn’t true. Morgan was right and Hotch wouldn’t begrudge him asking. “I’ve called Foyet’s murder in with Strauss and she wants us to stay focused on Powell. The Seattle office are sending some agents over to handle it until our people can get here. Local P.D are handling the autopsy and canvasing the scene. We don’t know what he took yet, or what he left, other than the flowers.”

“What was the victims name?” Hotch asked. “Has his family been informed yet?”

Morgan paused. “Joseph Turner, his wife is out of state with their son, she’s flying back in the morning.”

“How old is his son?” 

“Twelve.” Morgan said. For a moment he looked like he was going to say something else but seemed to think better of it. 

“Hm.” Hotch picked up his coffee, filed the information away, pretended it didn’t make him sick to his stomach, and took a sip that was just the right side of scalding. The only way Foyet’s murder could have been more perfect was if the victim had been left-handed. “Strauss is right. We need to focus on Powell.”

He could tell that was not what Morgan expected him to say—not what anyone had expected him to say—and watched as Morgan’s gaze glanced to his phone, then back to him. He saw him frown, saw his team exchange glances out of the corner of his eye, at what they saw as a contradiction. It was one Hotch wasn’t about to explain.

“Ok. We need to be vigilant though. Hotels clean, we’ve been given the all clear to go back, but with Foyet you can never be sure. We should probably double up just in case.” Morgan said, then, in a move that was uncharacteristically bold, out of character unless they were alone, he went for a question Hotch hadn’t anticipated. “Are you alright?”

Hotch smiled and deflected with ease. “I’m mostly just annoyed we all got out of bed for no reason.” 

Rossi snorted, an undignified sound of amusement, his disbelief clear. Hotch shot him a quick glance in warning.

“Maybe that’s his secret plan,” Reid said speculatively. “keep us all sleep deprived and running on caffeine.”

“Aren’t we like that usually?” Prentiss replied.

Reid shrugged, taking another sip out of his coffee mug. Was that his fifth? 

“We should probably all try and get some sleep.” Morgan said, eyeing Reid’s coffee mug with a mildly disturbed frown. “We’re not going to be able to get anything else done tonight.”

“I still want to go and talk to Ben.” JJ said.

Her announcement alarmed him more than he cared to admit, yanked him away from the calm he’d settled into like a mask, shaking something a little more genuine into his voice. Hotch couldn’t hide the worry in his tone, didn’t really even try to, and he knew how much he revealed in the way he was quick to answer. “You shouldn’t go alone.” 

“Hotch—”

“Humour me?” He smiled because he knew it would disarm her. 

JJ frowned, bristling under the implication she needed someone with her, but Hotch held her gaze steadily. He didn’t look away because he didn’t feel guilty, and he wasn’t insulting her. He wasn’t doubting her. Hotch opened the pot of jello Reid had saved for him so victoriously. “None of us should be on our own.”

“Even you?” JJ would not let him go with her until he explicitly made himself accountable to the same rules.

“Even me.” He agreed easily. Then, with a slightly cheeky grin. “Can I finish my jello first?”

She rolled her eyes, but he’d pulled a smile from her. “Fine.”

*

They were intercepted by Doctor Grey as soon as they returned to the ICU.

The waiting room was half full, busy even at this hour of the night, nurses milling around the reception desk, and the steady thrum of activity was just as unsettling as it always was. There was no discernible ebb and flow, no pattern, and Hotch wasn’t going to try and pretend hospitals made him feel anything but a little on edge. Madison Grey spotted them as soon as they approached, her tired face hardening, striding to meet them, and Hotch knew that she saw them as a nuisance. She was just trying to do her job, keep the department running smoothly, and all it seemed like they were doing was getting in the way. In the hour or so since he’d last seen her, Hotch could tell she hadn’t had a chance to sit down. He doubted she’d been able to have so much as a coffee.

Her scowl was unimpressed. “Looking for Ben?”

Hotch looked at JJ, saw his own surprise reflected in her face, and felt the first prickling of alarm in the back of his mind. How did she know who they’d come to talk to?

Doctor Grey shrugged, unconcerned, recognising their shock for what it was. “Don’t look so surprised—you may have been subtle, but this is a hospital, and gossip travels fast.”

Hotch thought about how quickly news of the murder had spread, how _details_ of the murder had spread, thought about how, unlike the previous ones, Powell would not be expecting to hear about another dead body tonight. With the influence he had in this place, it would not take long for something like this to travel back to him. And if he’d been keeping tabs on the hospital…

“Where is Ben?” JJ said, her expression serious. The alarm in her voice was well hidden.

“What do you mean ‘where is Ben?’,” Doctor Grey snapped. “He’s working.”

“Ma’am—“

JJ’s eyes were drawn to something behind him, widening in alarm, and Hotch turned just as he heard the crack of a gunshot. A light fixture to the left them exploded, spraying the floor with glass, startling nurses and patients alike—a cacophony of terrified screams ringing out before a second, warning, gunshot was met with silence-- and Hotch was unsurprised to meet Sam Powell’s furious gaze. He was standing a little ways down the corridor, one arm around the neck of a smaller male, Hotch recognised him as Ben, holding him back against his chest. There was something wild in his expression, something desperate.

“Let him go.” JJ said and her voice was icy cold.

“Sam what are you—"

Madison cut off as the gun swivelled to face JJ, face gone white, and Powell growled “No.”

Neither of them were wearing a bullet proof vest. 

Hotch needed that gun pointed away from JJ _now_. He subtly moved back from her and Doctor Grey, away from the bystanders in the waiting room, the movement drawing Powell’s attention like a magnet, and smirked. “You’re not going to shoot.”

The gun swivelled to point at him and Hotch relaxed in relief.

“Hands up.” Powell said.

The gun was steady in Powell’s hand but everything else about him was a mess of contradictions. His eyes were deadly, furious, but wide eyed and wild—overwhelmingly expressive—and desperation was threaded through every tense muscle. It was obvious he’d never used a gun before, the grip was all wrong, the stance too wide, but Hotch knew you didn’t have to be good to be able to kill someone. You just had to be able to hit something. The inexperience meant something though, showed he’d never planned to _need_ to shoot to kill. For all he’d once nearly beaten a boy to death, in comparison to most killers Hotch faced this boy was almost soft. 

He didn’t kill for a rush of pleasure.

Hotch didn’t raise his hands in surrender, he slipped them into his pockets instead, stood casual and unimpressed. He didn’t even reach for his gun, made it look like it was because he couldn’t be bothered rather than because it was too risky with so many people around, watched as Powell’s finger tightened on the trigger. Hotch knew it was because his right hand was resting close enough to his weapon to make the man nervous, but the threat was as much as he would dare. Hotch was fast. Faster than Powell? Maybe. But he didn’t want to shoot anyone if he didn’t have to. He knew he could talk his way out of this. He preferred to talk his way out of this.

This would keep Powell’s eyes on him, attention trapped; it was enough to make him look confident to the point of arrogance. And oh, it would have goaded Foyet if this had been him—made him shoot just for the petty _thrill_ of it—but Powell didn’t need to be soothed by submission.

He needed to be pushed. 

Hotch couldn’t help but consider how Foyet would see Powell—how he’d scoff, consider him lacking imagination, someone beneath his notice—because the Reaper could not conceive of killing as an act of mercy. Foyet would never give someone an easy death. 

Powell frowned, unsure. “Hands up.”

Hotch raised a brow. “No. Are you going to shoot me?”

“Yes.” 

“I don’t think you will. It isn’t how you work, is it?” Hotch shrugged. “I don’t think you’ll shoot Ben, either.”

Drawing an unsubs attention to a hostage was always a risk, but Hotch kept himself relaxed, almost at a bored slouch, looked Powell straight in the eye and ignored the gun. 

“He was going to tell you about me.” Powell said slowly. And he was quick, quick and clever; eyes flicking over him as he tried to figure him out. It confirmed that Ben had definitely seen something, that they had been right, but nothing more. 

As far as confessions went, Hotch knew he could do better.

“Did he? I thought he was going to tell us about a killer. Are you a killer, Mr Powell?” He replied.

“No! I helped those people.” The agitation ricocheted upwards and the gun was no longer so steady in his hand. “They wanted an end to their pain, and I gave it to them. I made sure they died peacefully. I ended their lives the way they deserved.”

It was enough to make Madison Grey gasp in horror, her stoic mask crumpling for a moment. Hotch looked away from her, knew he couldn’t afford to be distracted, and took a step closer, ignoring the warning growl. Glass crunched beneath his feet. Hotch affected a pause. “What about the death last night?”

“That wasn’t—“

“Wasn’t you?” Hotch interrupted. Foyet would have been enraged by that, or intrigued, but Powell was knocked off balance. He was scrambling to try and defend himself. His methods were important to him. Someone encroaching on his turf had severely unbalanced him. Made him act reckless instead of smart. “Oh, we know it wasn’t you, but how does it feel to have a crime like that attached to your name?”

Most killers would be thrilled; Foyet’s work was prolific, if there was an elite he’d be near the top. 

Powell was horrified.

“You can’t. It wasn’t me; I wouldn’t kill someone, not like that.”

“We can. If we want to.” Hotch said with a smirk, the kind that reliably made people want to hit him. “You wanna know why that man died?”

Powell’s grip on Ben was loose, he was frowning, he was intrigued. He very much wanted to know. It was why he was here, what had driven him to such an erratic, emotional response. There was nothing measured about this. He’d wanted to prove his innocence, shut up the one witness, so that he could keep on killing as many people as he thought needed his mercy. 

“You know who killed them.” It wasn’t a question.

Hotch took another step closer, flicked his eyes over at JJ quickly just to let them know to be ready. She was looking at him with raised brows, mouth pressed in a grim line, unimpressed, and he knew that someone was going to be chewing him out for this later. 

“Let Ben go, and I’ll tell you.” Hotch said.

“No.” Powell replied. He was used to being obeyed, getting what he wants. He reaffirmed his grip on the gun, finger tense on the trigger. “Tell me. Tell everyone it wasn’t me. Now.”

But Hotch was not so easily cowed. He’d been threatened at gun point before, enough times to make it laughable. He hadn’t flinched then, and he wasn’t going to flinch now. “You’re not going to shoot me. You kill me, and all you’ve worked for disappears. You won’t be someone who helps those in pain, grants mercy, you’ll be a violent offender just like the rest.”

“I know what you’re doing.” Powell said. “It won’t work.”

Powell had no idea what Hotch was doing. 

“It was my fault.” Hotch said simply, because it was, adding a sly note of unrepentant admission to his tone. “Someone with a grudge followed me here and they killed Joseph Turner just because they thought it’d be fun.”

He always remembered the victims’ names. Always used them. 

“What?” Surprise had made Powell lower the gun. It wasn’t his natural weapon when he was enraged. Hotch was counting on that. 

Hotch smirked like he didn’t care; like the death didn’t bother him, like he wasn’t twisted by the guilt of it, and he hated how easy it was to sell that lie. “If I’d never have come here they’d still be alive, and you’d be able to continue helping people without interference. All this? It’s my fault.”

Foyet’s interference had pushed this case to this point; pushed Powell to this wild, dangerous, state and it had been purely by accident because _Hotch_ had been the target.

“You—you don’t even care—“

Hotch shrugged, kept his eye on Powell and away from anyone else. He told himself it wasn’t because he was afraid of their judgement. Hotch knew that he could very easily get someone to hate him. “No. I don’t. Did you know that he had children? A boy, about twelve? Wasn’t that about the age you were when your parents di—“

He knew it would push him over the edge, was ready, but Powell was fast, well rested, and, despite his bluff, Hotch was exhausted. 

His speed caught him by surprise. 

Powell abandoned the gun and shoved Ben out the way, barrelling towards him. And oh, he didn’t have far to go, not when Hotch had stepped within arm’s reach, not when he still had his hands so casually in his pockets, still in that insouciant slouch—

He couldn’t quite move fast enough, sliding half out of the way, and Powell was strong, stronger than him, stronger than Morgan, and he caught him with an arm around his upper torso, yanked him back like a rag doll, slammed him onto the ground like he weighed nothing more than a feather. Hotch hit the ground hard. The impact punched the air from his lungs, winded him, a raspy breath all he could manage for a moment, and Powell followed up with two vicious kicks that caught him in the lower back. He was going to have some nasty bruises. There was no time to think about that though, not with Powell’s furious form leaning now over him; because if Hotch didn’t move he was going to die, he knew JJ would have to move to get a clean shot, knew that there was a lot Powell could do with a precious few moments, and adrenaline fuelled self-preservation meant he could think about how much he hurt later.

This was not the first time he’d been knocked on his back by an unsub. 

He acted quickly, knocked Powell’s leg out from under him, got the leverage to push him to the side before he could hit him. Planted his knee on his back and pulled his arms behind him before Powell could buck him off, cuffed him before he could muster enough to fight back, and hauled him to his feet. For a moment Powell tugged at his grip, enraged and wild, and Hotch braced himself for things to get tricky, but then the fight suddenly sagged out of him.

Hotch followed his gaze, found Doctor Grey’s wide, terrified eyes, and took in the expression of agonised betrayal that had cut through Powell’s rage like butter.

After that things were relatively simple, JJ called Morgan to let him know what had happened, and he arrived just as the local police did. Regardless of how well-liked Powell was, there was nothing that could keep him out of police custody at this stage. Hotch knew that going to trial would be tricky, that the bureau would have to keep an eye on this case, but he was fully prepared to testify if he needed to. He had very little patience for politics when it meant a killer could go free. 

“Hotch are you—”

“Do you want a coffee?” Hotch interrupted.

JJ frowned, then she sighed and rolled her eyes. “So much for not going off alone.”

Hotch smirked. “Tell Morgan that I’ll be quick.”

“You better.”

While drinking three coffees in one night might be considered a little excessive, Hotch could admit that caffeine was probably the only thing keeping him upright. He allowed himself a small sigh as soon as he was out of JJ’s sight, as soon as he was alone in the next corridor, allowed himself to sag a little—to wince at the pain of bruises forming across his back—and closed his eyes for a second. It was hard to force them back open, adrenaline fading and leaving exhaustion behind like a vacuum, but Hotch had forced himself through many uncomfortable things.

This was nothing.

He didn’t remember pressing any buttons on the coffee machine, or inserting any money, but he must have because the next thing he knew Hotch was listening to the whir of the machine and watching as it did it’s best not to splutter and die. He let out another small sigh, pulled out his phone, scrolled to see whether Foyet had replied with his usual nonsense.

_how about you tell me over dinner?_

For a moment Hotch was left staring stupidly at his phone.

He wondered if he’d accidentally fallen asleep, idly considering if Powell had hit him harder than he’d thought, or if Foyet had really just asked _him_ out. It was—well, perhaps not unexpected—but it was certainly a little odd that Foyet was choosing now, at a ridiculous time in the morning, after he had killed someone, to call Hotch on his bluff. And it had been a bluff. Or, at least, a dare meant to goad Foyet into acting on impulse. Of course, he would pick the absolute worst time to try and take Hotch up on it. He knew exactly how to rob someone of an advantage.

There was no way he was being serious.

_If you want to get arrested again then yeah, name the place._

_that eager to get me back in handcuffs? thought maybe you’d want to be the one tied up this time_

Hotch rolled his eyes, nonplussed by Foyet’s usual flirty nonsense, and willed himself to have patience. It would be a lot easier if Foyet wasn’t so damn annoying.

_It’s barely 5am._

Foyet was taunting him with that message, Hotch’s own little challenge thrown back at him, his own little form of mockery—and oh how Hotch had enjoyed mocking him—repeated back, but why?

_Breakfast then? ;)_

Hotch closed his eyes in exasperation, which he realised he’d been doing a lot recently. At least Foyet’s little joke answered a question.

_So you’re still in Seattle?_

_wanna give me a call and find out?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also...sorry for the cliffhanger?

**Author's Note:**

> I finished this instead of wrapping presents. So, erm...Merry Christmas? :) But, on a more serious note, I know this year has been horrendous for us all. I hope everyone is safe, and as well as can be, and have managed to find some measure of peace and enjoyment this Christmas.


End file.
